Hell's Around the Corner

By Salomé Veder

“Love, is a fiery thing. And when two souls collide that shouldn’t, it burns...”

Sebastian St. Claire is nothing but the consummate professional. His job is to protect the daughter of a VIP client but instead, he finds himself intrigued by her fiery personality and innocent beauty.

Marisa Rothman is studying for her master’s degree at a small, private college in Illinois. As the daughter of a FBI agent whose life has been threatened, for her safety, she has been put under the protection of Sevren Securities––and under the eagle eye of Sebastian.

He is an enigma, a man colder than ice; and yet, smolders from within. Marisa senses something deeper in Sebastian that she can’t ignore, and it draws her toward him, like a moth to the forbidden flame.

However, the circumstances of the situation puts Sebastian in a precarious position, for his deepening attraction to Marisa threatens to dismantle the carefully constructed walls he’s built in his heart, and possibly violate the oath of his duties to protect her with his body. And nothing more.

But pure existence is never black and white, and when two souls find each other, and ignite, there is no turning back. No matter if the danger that still lingers threatens to return, and with devastating consequences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Salomé Veder
• Release date: Mar 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781541275515

Salomé Veder

I'm a 30-something (headed into 40-something) wannabe writer that's been writing since I could write but only started publishing in 2017. And I will never make it big. I write stories people will never read but characters who refuse to be shut out or unknown.Maybe you, dear reader, will be one of the few that ever sees a cover with my name or happen to fall in love with a hero or heroine that stays with you.Ever since I was little, I always had these stories filled with fully-fleshed characters that felt real. They talked to me. They told me who they are. They wanted to be known. Putting these worlds and personalities into words and creating a book out of those scenes that ran like a movie in my head was, well, fucking heady.But I love it.Pen to paper--or rather--the click-clack of the keyboard on my laptop, I let them all out. Writing my first book felt like I could truly breathe for the first time. Like the creativity in may soul was, at last, f-r-e-e.My stories are filled with drama, tension, love, angst, tenderness, suspense, mystery--and sometimes ugliness. My goal is to not just tell you a story, but to give you an experience...I hope you enjoy!****************************| ἐγώ εἰμί |Legō.Scrībō.Amō.*S t a l k * M e*Goodreads➜https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/17034804.Salom_Veder (F.U. Amazon--if I ever make it big, I will never sell on your platform. EVER. Smashwords, someday, you'll be glad I choose you. Barnes and Noble--get ready for meeeeee!)Mail➜[e-mail]➜https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCs9Bl1ec9icF-uO6jUXCLJA

Book preview

Part I

"Everyone has an addiction…

Mine just happens to be you."

1

Sebastian

Marisa Rothman walks beside me, at my right, subdued and radiating unease. Her low-heeled, black boots clomp-clomp on the concrete sidewalk. She has not uttered one single syllable since I met her at her loft. I keep her constantly in my peripheral, cataloging and calculating every movement. She’s an outgoing person, an easy laugh at the ready, playful or a little mouthy depending on her mood, or provoking if she’s provoked. I’m a provoker and it takes little effort to push her buttons. From her, this quiet is disquieting.

We leave a picturesque and rather trendy neighborhood of Macon, Illinois where the terraces have tall, mature ash trees with fall shade that cover the cars parked along the curb. The houses that line this street are remnants from a more decadent era, before the economy hit then recovered and then mellowed out again.

Streams of students are on the same trajectory as we are. Just over the gentle knoll, Windgate College opens up before us, like a mirage. Mondays on a college campus are sedate and sleepy. Students stroll at a blunted pace, mouths open in a yawn, bleary eyes squinting against a silver-blue sky, and a full-bright sun that has no pity. I glance down at my watch.

Are you okay? I ask, getting a temperature read.

Of course, she states, so fast and on the heels of my words I know she’s lying. But about what, it’s always a mystery with her. She shoots me a sidelong smile and glance, bumping into me lightly. Everything’s fine, Sebastian. Relax.

Not gonna happen. At twenty-two, she’s young, ten years my junior but there are moments when she’s not naïve or young at all. I see a glimmer of the woman she will become. And the man that gets to be with that woman will be a very lucky man.

As though she can read my thoughts, she looks over at me, meeting my gaze and even though I’m wearing sunglasses, she looks right into me and that directness always gives me pause. Her eyes wander about my person, landing on my mouth for a brief second. Then her gaze darts away again but not because she noticed I noticed. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t register what part of my anatomy she was glancing at, just looking to look. Or maybe, I just imagined it.

I soak her in, a little more acutely. Seeing her ticks and tells as clear as the day, like this one—she tucks long strands of her dark hair behind her ears—when she’s nervous. But wisps of it escape anyways, curling around her shoulders. If not fidgeting with her hair, the necklace with one of her dad’s dog tags and her Mom’s wedding ring.

Her black moto jacket is open, revealing the thick teal sweater and a fluffy white scarf around her neck. More often than not, she’s got a camera in her hands and is constantly taking pictures. It’s her joy; her place of nirvana and the look on her face when she’s taking her pictures is nothing short of mesmerizing. I’ve seen her work, and I try not to be that impressed but her pictures could grace galleries. And should adorn walls already.

Her black brows are furrowed, eyes drifting about and lost in thought. As always, she’s unaware of my focus on her. Even when she catches me watching her, she doesn’t think anything of it. Oh, she notices, in that abstracted way about her but she doesn’t read the long or short of a look. Especially ones that sweep over her face, my gaze lingers; and down her body, my eyes linger even longer. But right now, I’m trying to figure her out, and I usually can, but not this time.

What? she asks, frowning. A brow is arched high.

I meet her stare. You’re nervous. Why?

Nothing. Her eyes slide away and she bites on her lower lip. So it’s going to be that kind of conversation, I muse.

What did you want to discuss, Ms. Rothman? I ask, again. A question I’d posed ten blocks ago, I add to myself.

Uh…still gathering my thoughts, she says, her voice guarded.

I see, I return. Must be a deep thought.

She sets her jaw at my mocking tone but she doesn’t respond, which is highly unusual. Elegant, slender fingers nervously tucks more hair behind her left ear, revealing a delicate profile. Her beat-up, canvas messenger bag bumps against my right thigh as she shifts it from her right to her left shoulder. It’s an excellent reminder to not look too long at anything, or anyone. I flit my gaze around, behind, even up at the tops of the buildings. The sun glints off the sparkling glass windows, metal accents, and marble columns of the buildings around campus.

My eyes take in everything around us—the flow of people and how they appear, cars moving along the street, shadows and dark areas—habits long since ingrained as normal practice. In my peripheral, I watch her hands constantly fiddle with the strap of her bag, her hair, the necklace, or the way she purses her mouth or licks her lips.

The grassy knoll is littered with college kids, traversing it or sitting in the dying grass and even more meander down the paved pathways. Tall trees with blood orange and yellow foliage dot along each path interspersed with wood benches encased in wrought iron. The grounds are covered with leaves but it’s been dry all October, a rare event when it’s usually raining or snowing. Or both.

With an inward sigh, I check my phone, texting Miles. He’s sitting happily in his condo instead of braving a horde of zombie college students. Corey Hall is up ahead, less than a minute if Marisa picks up the pace but she’s taking her sweet time.

She usually has two, very long seminars—one in the morning and one just after lunch—every Monday, Thursday, and Friday. Then, on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, she holds TA meetings after she teaches an early morning undergrad class of Mass Media Intro I. When she’d called me, I’d assumed she wanted to talk about something related to her detail or even questions about what’s going on with her dad. But she’s yet to impart anything at all.

Granted, I’m allowing her to take my time. And for foolish reasons.

A spike of irritation passes through me. At myself. I am not following protocol. I’m usually several yards behind her, blending in as a grad student or a professor, anticipating anyone that might try to attack and harm her. Not right next to her. I’m supposed to be her shadow, never visible and yet, here I am because I couldn’t say ‘no’. I tell myself: She’s the client and the man I work for is not cheap, so indulging her this once is not going to kill me.

Then again, it might. Because I can smell her perfume, or maybe it’s the scent from her shampoo or some other thing that I find equally distracting.

What’s on your mind? I ask, trying to take my mind off of her. I level her a look.

My tone gets her undivided attention. Maybe I’m just flustered I have such a tall, dark, and handsome stranger walking next to me? she tosses back, eyeing me slyly.

When hell freezes over. Then, her gaze slides up and down my body, lingering over my fly. On cue, my dick stirs and if I’m not diligent about it, I’ll have a hard-on in no time. But she returns her attention forward, a smile on her lips.

Shit.

I doubt that, Ms. Rothman, I murmur.

She gives a long sigh. "It’s been months, St. Claire. If I let you call me Marisa, can I call you Sebastian?"

She already does. Has since the day we were introduced. I told her to call me St. Claire. The first thing out of her mouth was, I like Sebastian better. She bumps lightly into me, playfully. I put at least half an inch of space between us, mainly because my due diligence isn’t making my cock get softer. However, formality and professionalism is everything and I tell myself that on repeat until my dick stops pulsing for pussy—hers.

Marisa, of course, notices my move, eyes moving over me again. Guess I’m too vile for even an ounce of familiarity? she poses, her voice soft. To my surprise, she stops me, a hand on my chest.

What now? I ask, not hiding the irritation coating my voice. It’s not because she’s touching me, it’s because she’s not touching me enough. So I don’t remove her hand. I should, I really should—but I don’t. Frankly, I wonder if she’ll do more. I almost hope for it.

What if I did this? And by ‘this’ she runs her hand down my chest and stomach, which automatically tightens beneath her hand, then she glides her hand back up, nice and slow. The pulse at my throat jumps and I’m hard at the feel of her fingers dancing against my skin. Or got even closer, like this? She presses her front into the right side of my body. Can I be familiar even if you don’t want to be? she asks, right into the curve of my jaw and ear.

My body reacts but I suppress any outward evidence.

Well.

For the most part.

This is her trying to get under my skin. It’s working. She has no idea how well, and she never will. However, if she were to shift her body to my left, even an inch toward my front, she’d know just how familiar I want her to be with me. But I don’t take the bait. I can’t. To do so would be the end of me. I use my right hand, placing it at her waist, relishing the feel of her soft body but I gently prod her back. I don’t look if I’ve wounded her feelings. Feelings are ephemeral.

What is this really about, Ms. Rothman? And don’t make me ask again, I warn her, my voice cold and even. I study our environs—to do my actual job—only to land on a male fifty yards ahead of us. His sole focus is on me, then Marisa. Interesting.

At the same time, she turns around to see what’s caught my attention, and stiffens, which makes me instantly go on alert. She grabs my right hand, hers wrapping around it in a tight grip. I stretch out my left hand then curl my fingers inward until I feel my short nails bite into the palm of my hand. Her constantly touching me is fucking distracting, both for body and mind.

Act casual, she whispers into my shoulder.

I snap my gaze toward her. What? I ask, flatly, not liking this for one fucking second. I want to pull away, meld into the background like I should have done instead of giving in to her.

She tosses back her long auburn hair, the scant mid-October morning sun revealing deep reds and rich brown hues weaving through it. Her dark green eyes twitch between me and John Doe up ahead. Just go with the flow, will ya? She says it with attitude but it comes out in a plea, like this morning. Her eyes search mine despite the fact that she cannot see my eyes but she makes it seem like she can see right through the dark tint of my shades. Please, Sebastian?

Fuck. I ground my teeth and inhale sharply through my nose. I immediately zone back to the approaching male, purpose in his stride. His hands are looped over the front straps of his bookbag, knuckles white. I squint behind my sunglasses, assessing. Brown hair, brown eyes, Caucasian, early twenties. Five-eight, a buck sixty, not much muscle and easily overpowered. He’s in a dark green, wool pea coat, a black scarf, slouchy hat, dark jeans, and leather loafers. What Marisa’s roommate would label as ‘trying too hard’. I relax slightly but my left hand stays near my left hip. Under my suit jacket, I keep my concealed weapon in its leather pancake holster on my belt. With the fall weather in the Midwest settling in around us somewhat, concealment is easier than ever.

Who is that? I ask, and in a tone that I hope conveys I’m not fucking around.

I get an immediate response. Bart Hollis. She clears her throat, fidgeting, not looking at me but away. Our master’s programs overlap.

Splendid. And…?

She drags it out. We had a few dates, like, a year ago. Before I met Paul.

Ah. This was well before I became a permanent member of her detail, going on seven months. I took over two months ago when Cash Wagner was repurposed for some other function within Sevren Securities. Markus had personally reworked my entire schedule for me to be here. To protect a VIP client’s hot daughter. Oh, lucky me. But when the boss says jump, I ask how high. Whether I like it or not. And right now, it’s a little bit of both.

Are you concerned about your safety around this Hollis character? I ask, going through a mental checklist for stalking, obsessed psychos. They come in all shapes, sizes, and intent. But Hollis was not in any paperwork or dossiers that Miles has on file and I wasn’t verbally warned about this guy, so he must have been classified as a non-threat and dismissed as important.

What? No. A pause. Though he’s a bit obnoxious in class.

I barely contain the urge to roll my eyes. Has he threatened or made threatening comments to you recently?

Huh? No, she repeats, distracted and irritated. He just won’t leave me alone. You know, always trying to catch me after class to talk, or before, to chat, or sits next to me…he’s exhausting. I mean, it was three dates. Nothing happened. Nothing was gonna happen. But he thinks otherwise. Besides, he knows I have a boyfriend.

I start to get the picture. Marisa doesn’t get what a cock tease she is. It’s not on purpose because I’ve seen this before but to some guys, it can read as playing hard to get. It’s not Marisa’s fault. She’s beautiful and doesn’t have a goddamned clue. She smiles and it gets a guy thinking shit that’s all made up in his head. But she doesn’t know when to pull back before dark thoughts get lodged in the sexual fantasies of a male. The younger, the more stupid, possessive, and impulsive. While I wish she’d figure it out sooner than later, and avoid trouble before unwittingly inviting it into her life, it’s still not her fault. Like now, it’s this relentless fucker who won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Truth is, I’m about to find out just how earnest he is, but I don’t like that she got one over me, using me to get this asshole off her back. On the other hand, being this easily manipulated by an innocent and unsophisticated chit like Marisa is pathetic.

I grit my teeth. Please don't tell me you called me to play interference with a scorned lover…

Don’t be such a dick, St. Claire, she chides. However, her cool hands tighten around my warmer one. At least she doesn’t go overboard and try to slip an arm around my waist. Or kiss me. Pretend you like me. I know that’ll be difficult for you but try, hmm? Or scare the shit out of him. Either way works for me.

The closer he gets to us, I can see that Mr. Hollis does not like the vision before him. His body language and microexpressions instantly become hostile as he sees our joined hands. At our perceived closeness. He tries to play it off, calm and collected as he offers a thin, uncertain smile but when we three huddle in the middle of the wide sidewalk, I can feel waves of his annoyance and frustration. I wonder how many times he’s jacked off to the image of just her smile. From the way his gaze moves greedily up and down her body, I’d say too often. I make a mental note to check this guy out more closely. Currently, Hollis’s eyes flicker to me constantly. I get why. My natural disposition isn’t nice or friendly and in a college setting where teenagers are still learning to be adults, I stand out. However, I can be affable when necessary and a bastard when needed. I think Marisa wants a good measure of both for this bullshit meet-n-greet. Hollis licks his lips nervously then focuses on Marisa.

Hey, he greets, his voice wavering. You missed this morning’s class. You feeling well?

I’m fine. Just…busy, she says, leaning into me.

He blanches at her throwaway response but he and I both take it as dirty and sexual, as though she and I had spent all morning together, likely fucking. Right… His eyes go to mine, widening to round disks. Who’s, uh, your…friend? he asks, his voice strangled.

She turns, facing him and places my arm across her lower abdomen. Her fingers thread through mine, and her left one is now wrapped up higher around my bicep, like my arm is the perfect shield to this loser. She’s not wrong in that belief.

I smile coldly at Hollis. If you don’t mind, Mari and I are running late, I say, using the pet name only her closest friends and family use—and not this asshole. Ever.

She tenses then relaxes but squeezes my hand. I look down at her as she looks up at me. Babe, don’t be rude, she says, her voice teasing and she smiles. She turns her face back to Hollis. "Bart, this is Sebastian, a friend of mine. A very good friend of mine."

Hollis’s face falls. Oh, he says, his voice full of disappointment and horror. I see… He still looks hopeful.

Nice meeting you, I lie, moving things along. With the hand she still has in front of her, I grip her right hip, give it a squeeze, and push her behind then around me. She gasps as I catch her around the waist so that she’s tucked into my left side and I move us around Hollis so that he can’t have one second to even breathe the same air she breathes. I nudge us forward, to put some distance between us and Bart. One of her hands land on my lower back and the other, near my gun. She jerks back like it bit her and I hear the thud of her bag fall at our feet.

Careful now, I murmur, releasing her but keeping her close. I don’t look behind me but turn my head enough to observe Hollis resume his trajectory in a hurry. He’d better keep going. And I don’t just mean this one time but every time.

Thanks, she exhales, visibly relaxing against me.

Now, time for a reality check. So glad to help, I tell her, the light sarcasm unavoidable. And very necessary. She doesn’t miss it.

She starts to move away but I stop her, pulling her against me with my left hand, low on her back. I cup the right side of her face with hand. I pull her up, forcing her to go on the balls of her feet. A hand lands on my chest, nearly over my heart—if I had one, that is. I let my lips graze her cheek until my mouth is next to her ear.

I can hear her breath catching, her chest rising and falling fast and heavy. It’s unconscious, but she presses her front into mine. I almost lose it then but keep it together, because I’m a professional, not some horny teenager with zero control.

"Don’t…ever…use me as part of some pathetic ploy to throw off some cast off again, Mari. I pull back and release her but I let my left hand glide down to her ass, pressing her lower body into mine. She inhales sharply, eyes blinking furiously, her breathing hitching up. Okay, so maybe I’m not much of a professional after all as I let her feel my hard-on. Her luscious lips part and her eyes are wide as she stares into my chest. She holds herself stiffly but her hands grip the front of my shirt. Do you understand me?"

She’s breathing deep and shallow. Her brows are furrowed, her gaze narrowed with confusion, and heat. Let me go, she demands, her voice breathy and weak. She swallows hard, body taut in my arms.

I tug at a thick strand of hair that’s been set free, rubbing the silky strands between my fingers. She lifts her head up as I lower mine. An infinitesimal distance, and I could kiss her. Every cell in my body eggs me on. I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.

Her face is flushed and her eyes glint. Fine. Whatever, she whispers, her voice shaky.

Then, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I look up and around, my hands instantly flattening against her body and pulling her into me. This time, it’s not sexual or inappropriate as I sense, once more, us being watched but I don’t see anything amiss. We are getting looks from passersby but it’s harmless. Her breath floats against my skin and I look back at her, see the haze in her eyes, and the clarity, too. Then I feel it—her. It feels natural, at the way her hands slide up my arms and her fingers roam the back of my neck and into my hair. Not at all casual the way I’ve fit her into my body. It feels right. Like we do this all the time. I swallow hard, a feeling inside me spreading, like a fever, and I push back at it, repulsed by it. I let her go then, reaching behind and disengaging her hands from my person entirely. Completely. She staggers back, and away, then picks up her bag. There is something in her eyes that I can’t dismiss as she glances up at me.

Our gazes lock. I feel it. Feel her. Everywhere. A moment of intimacy sparks between us, cementing inside me, and her, too.

The distance clears my head. I look at her with new eyes. Those eyes looking back at me. I am an abyss. And if she’s not careful, I’ll devour her whole. For a second, I swear I see that she wants to, fall in to me. But I know that’s a lie, one I’m telling myself. I blink, and pull away, in all the ways that matter.

You’re late for class, I tell her, my voice cold and detached.

Does it matter? she asks, her voice throaty. Sexy.

I smile a little at her. Not a nice one.

She blinks a few times, and clearly confused but nods curtly once, trying to get back to how we were, how we usually are. My barbed wire to her sweet venom.

She resumes walking, but with some pep. My eyes scan around, still unsettled but when I catch myself watching her firm little ass in her tight black jeans for a second too long, I tell myself it’s just to make sure no part of her was harmed in a potential assault by an eager pissant. Unfortunately, I’m not just referring to Bart Hollis.

I look around again, still sensing being watched and I text Miles to run a security check before I put my phone away. I follow after Marisa, who looks back at me, an unreadable expression on her lovely face but quickly faces forward when I meet her gaze.

I run a hand over my face, and shake my head. I am courting danger, a downward spiral into hell itself. I have no illusions at the line I’ve just crossed but I don’t give a fuck. Sometimes, when someone pushes, I push back. To teach them a lesson, though with Marisa Rothman, there are a lot of lessons I’d like to teach her—but that’ll never happen.

And what a damn shame.

2

Marisa

My Thursday morning has been running normally, minus a Sebastian encounter but I’m distracted. I’ve been distracted. I buckle down and try to focus on the lecture but my mind wanders again. And always goes straight to a particular man I shouldn’t be thinking about at all.

Since Monday, I’ve hardly seen any member of my detail and doing what they do best: Fading into the background but always knowing where I am at all times.

It’s because of whack jobs that I’m stuck with a detail I do not want nor asked for and likely don’t need. But my dad is an FBI agent within the Counterterrorism Division, or CTD, and a senior supervisory agent with the BAU. His role in hunting down leads on possible terror plots on US soil is making a lot of news. Mainly, because he’s damn good at his job.

About nine months ago, the FBI came across intelligence, mostly credible, that my dad was being targeted by a couple of self-radicalized ISIL followers. However, credible downgraded to likely and then nothing until he was attacked by his car outside a Trader Joe’s in D.C., and nearly taken hostage by two men.

I’d heard about the whole thing from friends, colleagues and on social media rather than from anyone from his work until way late and freaking out since I hadn’t been able to get a hold of my older brother, Trent, either.

But Dad was Special Forces. He’s as badass as they get. He overtook his two captors, killed one and nearly captured the second asshole but he fled and he’s still MIA.

That’s the guy the FBI is worried about. That he’ll try for another round. This time, he may target members of his family. There has never been any indication that Trent and I have ever been considered targets. Our family is tiny. It’s just the three of us. So the choices are limited but easier to monitor.

Dad’s overprotective on top of being paranoid. He’s also incredibly resourceful and has no shyness about cashing in past IOUs. The son of a friend from his military days, Markus Sevren, owed him one and pulled all the punches.

Markus is the CEO and President of Sevren Securities. They are a Fortune 500 Company and one of the best private security firms in the world, so I suppose that’s supposed to make me feel safer. I’ve known Markus since I was a kid and he’s always been kind; but he’s also always kept his distance. While we’re not close, he takes his job very seriously. Which means me, as well.

And so, this arrangement was made and that’s how I now have Sebastian, and, of course, geeky but super hot Miles, and Jay and Ralston, also quite easy on the eyes. None of them have much humor, except for Miles. Kind of. I’ve only tolerated their intrusion into my life. However dull and sedate it may be, I’d prefer only I know that. So I’d accepted it, if only to ease Dad’s mind, though I do think having more than one bodyguard is absolutely ridiculous. But it seems Markus wanted to go all out for my dad and I suppose that’s a testament to just how much he and my dad respect each other.

Trent, who works for NASA as a physicist, doesn’t have to worry about it as much since at work, there is heavy security to begin with and he lives and breathes NASA. He practically lives there and he chooses to work eighty hours a week. Insane. He barely knows what the members of his detail look like and seems so unbothered by it all.

I don’t pry too often, even though I’m always brimming with questions. Not that I’d ever be told, at least willingly. Then again, sometimes it’s best to not know the details.

My thoughts boomerang back to Sebastian for a second. Okay, more than for just a few seconds, more like constantly since I met him but Monday’s event has been a new development. I can’t get my head around. I blush at the sex dreams I’ve had of Sebastian over the past couple of months. I still feel the way his hand grabbed my ass and his erection pressing into my stomach. And his mouth so close to mine that he could have easily kissed me. I bet he knows exactly what to do with his mouth. I shake my head, my breathing getting uneven. But, honestly… What the hell had that been about?

Instead, I try to think about Paul. My boyfriend. He’s smart and thoughtful. Someone my dad would approve of.

Nothing like Sebastian. Sebastian who’s a little bit dangerous, and dark. Mysterious, aloof, so unattainable. Unreal. Cold, and dammit, excites me to the core. And gets my heart revved up effortlessly.

I run a hand through my hair, squirming in my seat. I press my legs together, feeling a pulse between my legs as I continue thinking about Sebastian, at how enigmatic and sexy he is. I tell myself that Paul is cute, the right kind of guy for a girl like me…but he doesn’t make me pant. Or squirm or pulse or get me wet from the mere thought of him. No guy ever has. Not even Paul when we fool around.

No—Sebastian is definitely not ‘cute’. He’s something else: A man, primal, slightly egotistical, heady. He’s also gorgeous but so are a lot of guys, including the others on my detail, but Sebastian just gets to me in an inexplicable way. And it’s annoying because it’s such a cliché. Despite that, I can’t get him out of my head. Worse, I don’t feel an ounce of guilt. And I should. I have a boyfriend. I’m somehow betraying Paul for thinking about Sebastian, right?

Ever since Sebastian took over my detail, he’s thrown off the dynamic I’d had built with the five original team members, one being a woman, Kassi Langley, before she and Cash had been recalled. None of the guys on my current detail are ever overtly friendly but always polite and put me at ease.

Sebastian is the complete opposite. His presence is a constant disruption to my piece of mind and he has been purposefully high-handed and cool in our interactions. In other words, he gets on my nerves.

Using him to ward off Bart had been my best friend and roomie, Tonya’s, idea—not mine—and I’d executed it last minute at her constant behest. I get his chilling warning to not toy with him and he’s kinda scary when he’s truly irked.

He never smiles and when he does, it’s not nice or fuzzy warm. It’s cutting, meant to convey bad tidings if you piss him off. I can’t help it sometimes when I needle him and he knows when I do it on purpose. I like to see the spark in his eyes, however which way I earn them.

It’s those blue-brown eyes I’d first noticed about him. Rimmed in black and around the pupil, a lighter shade of deep blue and rich brown that radiates outward and blends into the iris. Set against his lightly tanned skin and jet-black hair in a traditional side part and gradual fade at the sides, it’s a devastating combination. When he has scruff, like on Monday, he’s even hotter; or when he hasn’t gotten a haircut and it’s a bit longer than his usual shorter style.

And his body…my palm still remembers the way his chest and stomach had felt. I don’t expect or care about a guy with GQ looks or physique but everything about Sebastian is just…mind-numbing, panty-twisting delicious. A wall of strength, power and muscle. He hardly ever wears a suit so that had also distracted me and I’d wondered why he’d been so nicely dressed. Not for work, certainly. His daily uniform is usually casual—jeans and a long-sleeved tee or a button-down shirt—so that he blends in but he’s too good-looking and male to truly blend in. Not like the guys around town or campus, all trying to act like they have their shit together.

I knew the guys went off to Chicago on their off-weekends, and undoubtedly, he was wooing some gorgeous, sophisticated arm piece. And she’s definitely not someone like me. I bet when he’s with a woman he’s not wearing much of anything and I doubt that Sebastian beds the same woman twice. He doesn’t have to.

I itch to take pictures of him, just because he is just so interesting to look at but I know he’d never allow that in a million years. My memory will have to suffice.

Before I can stop it, parts of his body flashes in my mind. His hands. His mouth. His eyes, those eyes. The way the muscles in his neck work as he swallows. Every part of him is hard to ignore.

I shake my head, looking down at my empty notepad. I haven’t done much else but think about him since I arrived. I’m a serial note taker. Not by typing it in my laptop but forming the words and pinning them down. Thirty minutes have passed, of me daydreaming about Sebastian. I force myself to settle, and I try to focus on this seminar for my Journalism and Mass Communications Master’s Degree. As I look around, I’m the only one that’s not riveted to Dr. Hammel’s every word. I hunker down, pen at the ready.

Thank god I don’t have this class with Bart.

I’ll pick out the wine, Tonya says, waving at me and dashing off towards the wine room at our local Hy-Vee. She nearly runs over an adorable older couple holding hands.

Thursday nights, it’s Project Runway Night. Heidi. Gunn. Garcia. And all the bitch fighting we could ask for. I cook. Tonya usually gets drunk.

I shake my head at her, grabbing a small cart and wheeling it past the front entrance. I roll away from the cool air the doors let in and walk forward.

To the left is a floral shop. I smile, thinking that Paul, for my birthday back in June, got me a huge arrangement of exotic flowers.

Past that, I glance up, where the veggies and fresh fruit are located, a mental list already dawning on me. But as my eyes rove around the other customers and trying to locate where each item I need is, I give a start when I recognize the shape of a body.

Instead of my dreams centering around my introduce-to-my-family-worthy boyfriend, I can’t keep my dirty thoughts away from Sebastian. His dark looks, his brooding gaze, his cold demeanor. And now he’s haunting my waking hours, in the real.

They’re in profile to me. I don’t recognize the stunning woman hanging all over him. She’s statuesque, blond; dressed in black, super tight leather pants, a flowy and pink colored top and a lightweight, purple jacket. Her heels make her an even height with Sebastian. She looks like a model. He’s picking out fruit while she’s nestled into his right side. Her left hand roams down his back and ass. This is my man, is what her gesture indicates.

Seeing them together, the way they are together, I’ve never felt more like a little girl. Never more have I sensed the man in him, and the distinct difference in our age. At our life experiences.

His Monday suit ensemble had been disarming, and it’d flustered me, rendering me stupid. It’d put me in a strange mood where I imagined that I didn’t have a boyfriend at all, the illusion that Sebastian had been flirting with me. My mouth waters at the sight of him. A vision I’d been deprived of for days.

He’s in fitted, dark wash jeans, a white button-down haphazardly tucked in, and a light grey suit jacket that fits him like a glove. Dark brown biker boots complete the luscious image. He has a plastic basket in his left hand, his head turned toward the blond as he laughs at something she’d whispered into his ear.

I have never seen him smile let alone heard him laugh, and it doesn’t register that that sound is actually coming out of his throat.

To my everlasting horror, he looks over, right at me. His smile and laughter dies off like a cold bucket of ice. I freeze. His head is already turned away so maybe he didn’t see me. But he looks over at me again, his gaze hitting mine and my breath catches in my throat. With his clean-shaven face, he looks as sexy and sensual as his casual side.

The woman he’s with, burrows her face into his neck and I watch as he returns his attention back to her, then he captures her mouth in the kind of kiss that only exists in movies, books and my head. Slow, sensual, and all-consuming. He possesses her mouth like he owns it. And he probably does. I see tongue, her body all but trying to meld into his. Her hands wander, his hand cupping her jaw.

It’s like a jolt of lightening that passes through me. At how hot it makes me feel just watching them make out. Heart thudding heavy in my ribcage, I avert my eyes and head toward the nearest aisle post haste. I’m asking myself why I hadn’t put on my cute jeggings that make my ass look perfectly rounded instead of my favorite pair of worn Express jeans that hang on me a little, or at least put on my moto jacket instead of a shapeless, over-sized sweatshirt hoodie. I don’t wear a ton of makeup most days and my skin is pretty good but some mascara and lip gloss wouldn’t have killed me. And my hair, oh god, I have it in loose braided pigtails. Pigtails!

Horrified at how ugly I look, I resist the urge to re-do my hair and focus on the menu I’d planned out the other night. I’m going to make garlic sautéed shrimp over angel hair pasta with a pesto sauce. Cheese bread is a must. For dessert, anything chocolate. I cling to those thoughts of dinner, to not think and see what I just saw. I wish I could unsee them. I wish I’d gotten groceries yesterday. I wish for a lot of things that I likely will never get.

Once I’ve escaped into the aisle, I just stare at the stocked metal shelves, lost in thought, thoughts in the gutter. I have never been kissed in the way Sebastian was kissing that woman. When I kiss Paul, it’s sweet. Just that. Nothing more, or less. It doesn’t leave me breathless or desperate for more. But that’s normal, right? None of the guys I’ve dated made me crave their kisses. In public, in the middle of the grocery store where anyone can see us. Making out is PDA to the extreme, and over the top. The exhibition of that kind of intensity, that level of passion, doesn’t really exist, does it? I’ve never been kissed to the point that it’s made me weak in the knees. However, watching him with her, imagining me in his arms, makes me weak everywhere and I hate it. I don’t like these weird feelings that I can’t name and too embarrassed to entertain.

I move to another aisle to break my thoughts but I end up facing a row of canned veggies, still lost in thought, when I feel a presence behind me, and a body that is nearly touching mine. He overwhelms all my senses and I know it’s Sebastian. Stalking me? he whispers nearby. You forget…it’s supposed to be the other way around.

I blink, inhaling shakily and reaching for a can of artichokes. I put it back, then dump it in my cart, indecisive, needing to do something. Whenever Sebastian and I occupy the same space, it’s tit for tat. It’s a game, a routine that we’re both comfortable with. It keeps certain things at bay. It also allows me to toy with danger.

Where’s Barbie? I ask, moving down another aisle I don’t really need to go down. But moving helps me think quicker on my feet.

He laughs, lightly, like fingernails against my skin. I suppress a shiver. Brigit? he corrects, following me down the lane. She’s picking out some wine for dinner.

Of course her name is as exotic and gorgeous as her. I feel like a fool for the errant thoughts and feelings that I let pass through me like a breeze. Letting it filter through me, letting it sink in, deep.

You cook? I ask, peering at the contents of his basket as he shifts around me. I pretend he’s the same cold and indifferent bodyguard that I’ve known for the past two months.

I’m a bachelor, he informs me, cooking for myself is a necessity.

He wasn’t so ‘bachelor’ a few seconds ago. I look up and down the aisle. Still no blond super babe. You enjoy it? I ask, conversationally.

He shrugs, now in front of me as I roll my cart forward, and around. It can be fun, he says casually. He eyes the endcap scrupulously. He stops right in front of me, his fingers curled over the end of my cart while the other rummages over shelves of gourmet foodstuffs from France. The packaging is as devastating as the price. Cooking for someone else, however, is a pleasure I rarely indulge in. He cuts me a look. Unless it’s with the right person.

I gulp, his gaze on me excruciating. I want the floor to swallow me up and I don’t want to emerge until he and his girlfriend are long gone. Face feeling hot, I clear my throat, and tear my eyes toward the meat counter. Not sure Barbie actually eats, I mutter under my breath and I feel bad at my snarky remark. Just because I’m jealous—

Miles says you’re a good cook, he notes, his voice almost bored.

My heart skips at that thought. At how very boring I must seem to him. I’m a hermit. When I’m not studying or grading papers, I read in coffee shops for hours, visit the library, or book and camera stores for even longer and…nothing like Tonya, who is always out and being wild. He lets go of my cart and I move round him in a hurry, escaping two aisles down to the refrigerated stuff. The cold feels good against my hot skin.

But Sebastian’s right. It is his job to stalk me, and he does it well. He’s also right there as I place a carton of eggs and yogurt in my cart.

Well? he taunts. Are you?

I jump at how close his voice is. I look over at him as he settles near my right. Wh-w-what? I stutter, swallowing hard and my throat is drier than the Sahara.

A good cook?

Calm down, calm down. I clear my throat, trying to channel Tonya’s so-cool and careless vibe. I do okay, I say, but my voice wavers. Actually, I’m better than okay. Years of practice on my brother and Dad have made me a fairly decent cook. But it’s been a while since I’ve made Miles anything…

I pause. Beside me, I watch as he picks up a glass container from the metal shelf between the refrigerated bays of the aisle. He turns it over, and starts reading the listed ingredients even though I have a feeling he’s not reading a damn word.

Since when, Ms. Rothman? he asks, setting a glass container of herb-infused anchovies with a clank.

I tense ever so slightly, flicking my eyes to his. The heat of embarrassment creeps throughout my body. Since you came on board, I manage, quietly.

Ask me why, he commands.

I grit my teeth. "Why is that, St. Claire?"

He shouldn’t be in your home for any reason other than to check it out for any possible intruders or checking up on the surveillance system, he says, brushing behind me. His hard chest sweeps around my right shoulder to my left, and I swear it’s like he’d brushed against my nipples. They go hard and tingle.

Why? I return, pivoting around and following his movements.

He’s not your girlfriend who’s just over to watch the latest reality TV show with you. He slants me a long look. Unless you want him around for a reason? Maybe you have a crush on him?

I flush. He’s a nice guy. Unlike you, I almost add.

He smiles at me, like he knows. "Nice guys have the dirtiest thoughts…Mari."

I can’t even imagine what thoughts play out in a mind like Sebastian’s. Probably filthy as fuck. Yeah. Okay. I’m blushing hardcore. And, anyway…I have a boyfriend I’m perfectly happy with, I blurt out, retaliating as best as I can.

Just happy? he taunts, a dark look crossing his face. His eyes move down my body then meet mine. I know what he’s implying by that look.

I can’t stand this so I walk away until I spot the sign that hangs above each aisle, which tells me where the goddamned pasta is located. I don’t waste my time and dump a box of angel hair and a plastic bottle of EVOO in the cart. I still need ingredients to make the pesto. So I move along until I’m right back where I started. I get the garlic, basil, pine nuts, fresh heirloom tomatoes and a triangle of Fiore Sardo.

I get a text from Tonya and tell her where I’m at as I head to the front. She bounds toward me, her long, strawberry blond hair in a messy bun and falling apart. She’s in workout gear that’s more ‘fashion’ than for working out. Though she does work out like a fiend and it shows in her athletic frame. But her diet is for shit. In her arms are a big bag of chips and a container of apple turnovers made in the local bakery. I at least work out moderately and eat somewhat healthy. Not that I have a slender and super toned body that shows off my sense of moderation and hard work in the gym. Eh, oh well.

She also juggles a wine bottle in both hands. She doesn’t know anything about wine. Just how to drink it, and picks by how pretty the label is. Despite that, her method of wine picking has never failed us. I laugh at her excited grin.

Hey, maybe we should invite your boys over? She gives me a wink.

I groan, having momentarily forgotten all about Sebastian for two whole seconds. "They are not my boys and no. Hell no."

What about Miles?

I smirk. "I don’t think Project Runway is his type of show."

You never know, y’know?

I roll my eyes at her cheeky response.

Fine, she says, pouting then smiles evilly. "I’ll text him. Just give me his number."

I rub my forehead. I’m not allowed to give the phone numbers of my detail to anyone without permission—from Sebastian. She’s only just seen Jay and Ralston from a distance, never up close and personal. That I know of.

Tonya…

How ‘bout Sebastian? She waggles her brows at me then pretend-swoons. "Gawd, he is so fucking hawt. Then her gaze turns sharp. I’d bet he’s got a big—"

What? a voice says, behind us.

Tonya and I both jump a mile high and jerk our heads toward Sebastian, and Brigit. She smiles down at us like we’re cute little children playing in the sandbox. Her blond hair literally looks like spun gold and this close up, she’s even more stunning. She is flawless. Perfection in real life. Seeing her with him is dissolving the fantasy I’d been harboring since Monday. It’s what I need. It puts things in perspective. At least, that’s what I’ll be telling myself for the rest of my life.

"Big…what, Tonya?" Sebastian asks, his expression unreadable.

Um… Tonya squeaks, speechless. I look over at her, her face red and eyes wide as saucers. Jesus, I have seen everything now. It takes a lot to fluster someone like Tonya.

Hey—you comin’ down, or what, girls? the cashier asks from her register, with a pointed look. I move to the front of the cart, grateful for the interruption.

Tonya squeezes behind me. See you at my car! she says, and races out. My jaw drops at how easily she abandons me. When I hear the mechanical whir of the conveyer and see my items moving past me, I realize that Sebastian’s putting my stuff on the belt.

Tonya seems out of sorts tonight, he notes, a slight smile playing across his lips.

I ignore him, putting the rest of my stuff on the belt myself. I realize that I put